Ad Infinitum
by Jojo6
Summary: S/J. Sam would much rather be playing Solitaire. PG-13. Season 7 *just spoilers for the big Season 7 spoiler*


Title: Ad Infinitum

Author: Jojo

E-mail: randomleaves@yahoo.co.uk

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: PG-13  


Season: 7  


Spoilers: Just the general... um... *big* one.   


Summary: Well, you see, I've been reading a lot of Alias fic recently...

A/N: Mmm, Alias. nanda's fault. Not MV's, which is unusual. Just nanda's. 

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That weird noise he's making is beginning to bug you.

It's a sort of high pitched, nasal sound. Not a long sound, really. You rack your brain for those important musical references. A clef, maybe. And so quiet that only someone really close to him could hear it.

And you are really close to him.

You're trying to stay very still. This is kind of an unusual situation. In the grand scheme of things, sitting on your commanding officer's lap isn't really a position any second wants to find herself in. But you didn't have a choice. If you'd come in through the west door, you would have been forced to sit on Daniel's lap because he would have been closest to you. The east door – Teal'c's. As it was, you probably came through the wrong door because this would be so much easier if the lap belonged to one of the others. 

Apparently, it's the way things are done on this planet. 

You do know that if either of those realities had happened, your commanding officer would have spent the entire night glaring at your seated companion. Or rather, glaring around the room – trying not to look like he was glaring at anyone in particular. And, knowing him, as you do, he would have been in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

He makes that noise again. 

You haven't moved; you're not trying to make this harder on him (no pun intended). In fact, you've made sure very little of your body is in contact with his. You are ram-rod straight, hands on lap, butt all but sitting mid-air to avoid too much contact with his right thigh – the thigh you chose as the victim of your weight. 

You acknowledge he's doing the same thing. His back is pressed intimately against the curved wood of the chair, his usually frenetic hands hanging down, fingers wrapped around the bars between the legs. His other leg is over to the left, hidden under the blue and white cloth the natives spread over their tables. It is also still.

For two people in this position, you're doing a pretty good job of pretending you aren't.

The noise.

Again.

Your eyebrow twitches. Around you, there are other noises, after all. The curious murmur of Daniel, questioning something Barant Delois is saying, his hands spread, palms done on the table. The continuous pompous spiel of Delois and the coughing of one of the other leaders. But your commanding officer has all of your attention.

Had you known the invitation to join the highest aristocracy of this planet in the solarium would result in a lecture on the planet's history (a third of which is made up, untrue and preposterous) and you snuggled up in his lap, you would have stayed in your room. At least you could have played Solitaire on your laptop until the battery wore down.

You are thankful that you decided to put the BDUs back on, though. The native women's clothing is backless and would probably have given him an apoplexy.

Part of you likes that idea, though.

An image of yourself perched on his lap in exactly the same position, but knowing his eyes are roving up and down your exposed spine, crosses your bored mind. It is delightfully... entertaining. 

You lower your head and look demurely down at your lap, where your hands are entwined tightly. 

The same part of you that finds that devilish idea fun wants to slide back in his lap, wrap your arms about his neck in just the same way as the other aristocratic women around the table, and perhaps nibble on the cute lobes of his ears. 

Without warning, you hear the noise again.

And this time it's coming from you.

He moves slightly and, distracted by the realization that you're also expelling strange sounds, you lose your balance and wobble precariously. His hands automatically grab your hips to protect you from a fall and possible humiliation and the tips of his fingers dig into your flesh.

For a long moment, both of you still, trying not to draw attention to yourselves. The rest of the guests have their eyes fixed on Delois and his monologue of Prevarian history – still a very dull piece of work, melodramatic, full of metaphors and incomprehensible family lineage – and have no interest in the strangers from the Stargate. But then, Prevaria is used to travelers from other worlds. Few have been so interested in their history as Daniel, though, and they are taking this opportunity to pull out the big guns and stun their arrivals with Prevarian myths.

You want to go home. Truthfully, you've wanted to go home all day. You have a good book in your lab, hidden under several reams of data that look very official but really aren't. A juicy crime novel with a schizophrenic witness and a perfect use of imagery that has your toes tingling and your spine twitching at night. 

You love things that make you feel like that. It's been a while since you were really terrified. No, not the normal terrified. Not the death on a daily basis terrified. Spooked.

You just liked to be spooked sometimes, that's all.

His fingers flex slightly and your toes curl. Heavily, he drags his other leg back towards you, sliding his thighs together and bending his knee so his feet are aligned. Very slowly, very carefully, he edges you over, your butt sliding towards the dip between his legs, the pressure on your waist cautioning you to do as he bids. 

No one seems to notice. Certainly not Daniel. Teal'c has long ago made a point not to notice anything of a personal nature between your commanding officer and you – he's sweet that way and you know, deep down, he just wants you to be satisfied.

You decide, once you're settled, that his leg was probably hurting. You're five nine, after all, and your weight is appropriate given your musculature and physical traits. His fingers drop away from your sides and you breathe a sigh of relief, the tension ebbing away. 

Your boots are no longer touching the ground and you carefully cross your legs at your ankles, trying not to jog your heels against his ankles. But even as you're doing so, you feel movement. With confusion, you watch his hands appear on either side of you, sliding over your hips and spreading across your thighs. Logical explanations fail you and you are always Miss Logical. 

Your head shoots up when he starts pulling your thighs apart.

You make that noise.

He speaks in an under voice, "Shush, Carter."

You swallow loudly and your hands grip his wrists, digging in tight, your body language saying all the words you want to say but can't, what the fuck are you doing? what. the fuck. are you doing?

His thumbs rub forwards and backwards and you imagine he's trying to convey to you a measure of comfort but his aim is very definitely off. Your core temperature shoots up and this time your noise makes Daniel glance your way. He furrows his brow at your panicked expression – the patented Daniel-is-concerned-but-otherwise-occupied look – and then turns back to the speech, probably thinking that you are in safe hands. 

The irony is not lost on you.

Your commanding officer's hands slide further towards each other and you scramble the urge to get away, to climb up him, to grab his hands and shout at him to Stop That or, alternatively, Keep Going. You try to keep your ankles locked together but his arm strength is stronger and his thumbs are wicked and you are really no match for him.

He begins to pull you back. Inch by inch. You are too shocked to do anything but sit there as he moves you up his lap. You are a little disappointed in yourself when you acknowledge just how hot he has made you with very little effort indeed.

Most men would have to really work at it to get you in that state.

You are settled up against him now, your back against his chest, your body fitted to his. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder so you can feel the heat from his cheek and the prickle of his not-entirely clean shaven jaw on yours. Your skin is already tingling and you know you're flushed. You would bet anything that your forehead is shiny, too.

You thank God your baggy shirt covers any other obvious body reactions.

He smiles against your neck and his hands settled neatly on your waist. "Sorry. I got pins and needles," he whispers in explanation, breath humid against your already crawling skin. He is entirely aware of what he has done and he is entirely unrepentant.

You feel your nostrils flare in annoyance. Devilish, you decide to punish him just a little. You squirm in his lap, deliberately teasing and he breathes out, 'Ah'. You press back against him, arching just a little like a cat whose had its back scratched just right. You can feel his smile broaden against your neck and you smile in response..

Perfect.

The punishment has failed but you're hoping the history of Prevaria continues ad infinitum.

  
  



End file.
